Recruitment
by Metiera
Summary: Captain Kirk knows the type of skill set required to run a 'tight ship.'


Eyeballs shielded by lids were going at maximum warp. Their frenetic movement kindled dreams of varied length and description. The conglomeration of vivid, intense dreams, was over the top, even for him. The current one saturating his subconscious was a primordial doozy, sprinkled with bits, pieces and shards from his quilted past. Chaos ran riot.

Jim T. Kirk groaned. Aside from the room he lay in, the groans and wisps of fragmented speech echoed within the canyons, caverns, ravines and dark abysses of his mind. In the ever-roiling dream scheme of current events, he had just been hurled like a cannonball. The forceful chain reaction resulting from core re-alignment was to be expected. Even in his peculiar dreamland, the spouting of his Chief Engineer held sway. Before he hit a pylon, he thought he saw Mr. Scott. He knew he heard Scott's booming brogue admonish: "Aye, Captain. With all due respect, y'canny kick subatomic particles around and expect to survive…"

This time, when his back slammed into that brace then flipped over it, within the parameters of his dreaming mind, his spine didn't snap. It hadn't in real life either, after he had finished adjusting Enterprise's 'heart.' The operation had been a success, although the 'patient,' and all those aboard her had nearly died. Kirk's vertebrae had been badly thrown out of alignment. It was only to be expected. The force that had flung him back had been, "off the charts" as Mr. Chekov was fond of expressing.

Fragile flesh and blood could only withstand so much without tempting the predictable outcome.

Following Kirk's reanimation, Bones had whisked him into remedial traction as soon as it had been feasibly possible. James Kirk would not be crippled, not if Dr. Leonard 'Bones' McCoy had a hand in his recuperation. Bones' curative hand had left fingerprints, deep, long lasting ones. It would take more than certain death to sideline the brash and brilliant, tough, handsome and hunky womanizer.

His dream, looping, for as many permutations, this was now core re-alignment backlash, Part II. The nightmare placed him hanging from the support overhanging the core. This time, the dream sequence played out a good deal differently. All too easily, an enormous hairy hand materialized, backhanding him away from the core. Instead of being knocked to the radioactive chamber's deck, Jim was slam-dunked into the front seat, behind the wheel of his evil stepfather's adored classic car—correction—soon to be demolished car. Again.

Joyride, the sequel with a deadly twist.

Jim, howling his head off, still in the convertible, was about to spill over the side, this go round. No crash-test-dummy robo-cop, in all its mechanized glory, reading him the riot act either. He wasn't another Mid-west's finest rambunctious teen anymore. Bet your tin badge he wasn't. He was a full-grown man, moments away from dying when the car hit rock bottom. That hideous man-made pit, gouged into the Iowan genetically-manipulated cornfields would claim another corn-on-the-brain victim.

'To live and die in Iowa,' raced through Jim's slumbering, yet highly-agitated mind. Obeying that mind's implicit command, his body, lying in this San Franciscan hospital bed, flinched over and over.

The flashy 1965 red Corvette launched itself over the edge, taking clouds of silt, dust and a slew of red Starfleet shirts with it. Jim saw his life flash before his popping eyes, then closed them in the dream, scared out of his un-Vulcan mind that this was _it_. Inconceivably, all was weightlessness then, accompanied by virtually no sound. Even though Jim was screaming at the top of his lungs, there was overwhelming silence.

It would be the silence that killed him.

Until…

A bright, phantasmic light flashed, engulfing the broad quarry. The Corvette dematerialized out from under himself. Something prodigious snatched him from the jaws of death in that split second. A 'something' Jim couldn't identify, saving him from certain oblivion. When he reached out, clawing his way to safety, a stentorian voice blustered:

"I believe in you, Jim. Always will. Don't ever let that _T_ stand for two-bit, tawdry, or a throwaway."

In his dream, Jim saluted…in his bed he did too.

From the depths of his smothering subconscious, Kirk erupted, "Christopher," effectively sousing his stark white hospital room with relief, grief and loss, the wider awake he grew. The avuncular officer, more like a surrogate father, was still giving him advice. Kirk craved that the fallen father figure, locked away in his heart, always would.

_Saved_ crossed Jim's mind fleetingly. Where was Bones? Probably torturing another defenseless tribble, bless their little hairy hearts. Well, that was a stretch. Their hearts weren't hairy. Lately, McCoy had the furry fuzzballs on the brain, along with supplementary research needing to be done on Khan's kind. Dare one of the seventy-two be awakened for further study? If any of them had Khan's disposition, that idea was a bad one. Although, the contention that cryonics was intrinsically immoral was still debatable even in this century.

Most likely _Enterprise_'s Chief Medical Office and Mr. Spock were off arguing about words, a favorite pastime. Jim stretched and yawned. _Not bad for a brief 'dirt nap,'_ he thought, an amused expression tacked to his face. Stretching still hurt a little; soreness hadn't left his body entirely. His life had been restored. The body was still the same one that had gone through hell.

_Okay, what next_?

_Hungry_…wended its way through his mind for a second time. What did a guy have to do around here to get something to eat? Food in this hospital wasn't gross. It wasn't great, but he could keep it down now, unlike the first few times he'd been fed food through the mouth, not the kind administered intravenously.

No sooner thought than it being reality, he reflected, seeing Nurse Ooh-la-la enter his room, a free-floating tray preceding her. Hunger for food intensified. He made a conscious effort to tamp down his lust. Her real name was Lola Adara. She was a sight for his appreciative eyes, even in her hospital-issued uniform.

"How are we feeling today, Mister Kirk?" Her eyes, the color of a sleepy aquamarine ocean, smiled at him, along with her tempting pert mouth. He told himself to behave. Okay, well, somewhat. If she desired having her way with him, where was he going? He was still too crampy and hobbled to even roll out of bed. Protect his honor, what little he still had after his many trysts? He'd beg her to be gentle.

"As in you and me?" was Jim's droll comeback rife with teasing inflection. The man back from the dead was drooling. How was he supposed to recover with such a heart-stopper seeing to his every need? Well, almost, he couldn't resist salaciously thinking. He _was_ getting better. His central nervous system, or as he affectionately called it, 'fantasy central' was back in business.

"Not I, just _you_. I'm fine." Nurse Adara stabilized the tray squarely before him. Her smile seemed perpetual. She made the necessary preparations, making sure the utensils were in their proper places, uncovering his entrée, and adding a vitamin/mineral supplement to his clear beverage, which turned it salmon pink, like her dewy cheeks.

Kirk mentally squirmed.

"You sure are." He couldn't tear his eyes away from her provocative face.

When she blushed deeper, it was like waving a red cape in front of bullish, devil-may-care Jim 'Tickled' Kirk.

"Hungry?"

Kirk's roguish eyes danced. "Surprise me."

Lola took that to mean his wanting to be apprised of his menu. She took pride in telling him. She judged this hospital's food to be superior to any other's in the city. Following her rundown of food items, she turned to leave, requesting that he shouldn't hesitate to buzz if he required anything further.

"Hey, where're you going?" He tried straightening up in bed as best he could.

"Back to my station," Lola dutifully replied. She wasn't going to get her multi-tasks done if she lingered, chatting with this interesting, funny, terribly handsome Starfleet captain all day. Her priorities came first. She was at the beck and call of an entire ward.

Struggling, Kirk feigned utter dependency. The sight of him, obvious helplessness in action, straining to raise his right hand to the tray was indescribably delicious, absolutely affecting. He just stared at his left hand, solicitation radiating from his calculating, dreamy blue eyes.

"Feed me?" The pap in those puppy dog eyes barked at Lola. He refrained from calling her honey. He judged it wiser to hold off on the terms of endearment, didn't want to scare her off. Could be she was married. She was somewhat shy, he judged.

_Resistance is futile_…wormed its way through her mind. _Those big baby blues of his see right through me_. He _needs me_, Lola unstintingly thought, back at Jim's side in a heartbeat. He was shameless, but compelling, she mused, obediently sitting on the edge of the bed where he'd just patted.

"Are you married?"

"No. I'm not married." Somehow he had gotten that right hand, which had been incapable of movement moments ago, to move, she noticed.

"Seeing someone?"

"No one." When was there time? Her career was her life.

"So much better," James murmured as Lola began spoon-feeding him some very delicious chicken soup from freeze-dried stock. After slurping a wee bit more, he sweetly asked, "Uh, Nurse Adara, would you ever consider being assigned aboard a starship?"

She never had, not ever, and patiently Lola replied, "No, I never have." She had stern misgivings about space travel.

Conclusively, Kirk responded, "You should. You certainly should." He winked at her.

Lola winked back. Jim sighed, looking as smug as _Enterprise_ could in spacedock.

"A starship? Me?"

"Uh huh."

"Whose?"

"Mine…" Jim gave that time to sink in before abruptly adding, "I'd love to show you around my ship and galaxies." He devoured the look she wore while mulling his proposal over. "I'm James T. Kirk. Captain of the _Starship Enterprise_."

Humbly, Lola said, "I knew that."

Decisively, Kirk fired back, "Of course you did." He began easing the soup spoon from her hand, setting it on the tray. Gently, he squeezed her hand. "So...take me up on my offer? I can arrange it, make it happen. No sweat."

Sounding disarming, she requested, "Give me time to think it over?"

"Time?" He snickered. "Time's relative. Our first five-year mission comes up in a few months. It gives you plenty of time to enroll in Starfleet Academy for training."

"Training?"

"Yep. A crash course. It'll help get you ready for dealing with space." The grip he had on her hand firmed. "C'mon. Say yes. It'll be fun, exciting. Certainly challenging. You look like a woman who's up for a challenge." Presumption was scrawled on his bold face. Challenge was his middle name, among others.

Lola vacillated with his eyes doing a number on her better judgment.

"Well?"

"I'll let you know," she said, standing. Jim was not about to release her hand. His free hand grasped hers that was free. It was all too apparent that Captain Kirk had no problems with either of his hands. They both worked fine.

"Oh," Jim uttered forlornly, pouting.

"I've got to go."

"Yeah," he lamented. "Me too. But I don't want to go without you, Nurse Adara." He sighed heavily. "Please. Consider coming with...m..._us_. We would benefit from your talent."

Briefly, she considered just what sort of talent he was talking about.

"Your bedside manner is outstanding." When he licked his lips, Lola found it necessary to steady herself. She had nearly lost her footing on the ultra-polished floor.

"Uh...uh...I." She hesitated by the door, having anchored herself.

"Please," he begged. She was a female knockout punch, one all human for a change. The legs on her; they went on for days. Her smile belonged in the firmament, as celestial as it was. "You won't be sorry. Guaranteed."

The tenacity of the man, she analyzed. Before departing, she succinctly told him, "Like I said, let me think about."

"Yeah. Sure. Fine," Jim grumbled. "Okay."

After another beat, she was gone. Glaring at the space she'd vacated, Jim coasted into cranky, familiar territory when he didn't get his way. He was about to buffet the hovering tray out of his face when his door opened. Lola poked her shimmering head of dark amber locks in. "When my shift's over, I'll come back." That reintroduced the sparkle in his eyes. "Later, we could talk some more. Maybe with some additional persuasion, you might get me to..." Her smile rivaled the sun's radiance. "Go along for the ride."

He had thought that she was shy. He wasn't too sure about that now.

His silky smooth lady-killer self again, Jim laughed. "You do that. It's _a date_. See you then." Once he was alone again, he said more passionately, "L-o-l-a...Lola. Absolutely perfect." With a lengthy sigh, he parried, "Lola Nicole." Vigorously, his imagination already had her in...a Starfleet uniform.

End


End file.
